


Self Care

by bactaqueen



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, No Lube, Rimming, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 17:00:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20660621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: Steve fucks himself.





	Self Care

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people or events is entirely coincidental. Captain America belongs to Marvel. No infringement is intended and no profit is made.
> 
> **Author’s Note:** We all saw this coming.

Steve sets the scepter and the stack of SHIELD (HYDRA) files on the worn-out old bureau beside the bedroom door. He looks around the room. The renovated prewar apartment had been furnished and decorated by the time Fury dropped him off back in 2012. Even with the pictures of Peggy and the guys, his clothes in the closet and his books on the nightstand, this place hadn’t felt like anything more than another place to camp. It was worse than the tents across Europe. This place pretended to be home. Again, now, it’s stale and dark. He remembers how empty and lonely it felt eleven years before, the night after the battle and he was all by himself, and he  _ sees  _ how empty and lonely it is, feeling the ache of homesickness twice over as he stands just inside. 

The shower is on in the bathroom.

He’s right on time, then. He crosses the room and pushes the door open silently. With all the restless pacing he did through the place before he found that gym, he learned where the floorboards squeaked and how the hinges creaked. He steps into the bathroom. Steam billows up over the shower curtain rod and around the sides of the curtain to fill the air. The shower here is too small, really; the clawfoot tub is too far off the floor, he had to duck to get his head under the spray. But he hadn’t wanted to shower at the tower or HQ or even on the helicarrier. There were too many people in those locker rooms. He felt like a Coney Island freak show performer, like everyone had paid their money to get a look at him and that was all he was good for. No, it was better to do this in private.

For a while, he just stands there, watching himself under the water. He’s got both hands planted on the wall, his body angled, his head down and his eyes closed so the spray washes the battle from his hair.

Finally, he opens an eye and looks through the steam at him. “You come back to finish the job?” 

It’s striking, to be looked at like that. He has seen his own eyes in the mirror, but this is a different kind of piercing. Steve opens the cuffs of his shirt.

“Yeah,” he says. He tugs his shirttails from his pants.

He shuts the shower off and stands up straight. The hooks rattle along the metal rod when he shoves the curtain to the side. 

“Let me put some pants on, at least,” he says, grabbing the towel off the radiator.

“Get back in the shower.”

He pauses, arm outstretched, towel in hand. His eyes sweep over him, cool and curious. Steve unbuttons his shirt. Holding his own gaze, he toes out of his boots. He has things to put right. Mjolnir and the rest of the stones are safe in the next room, and he knows where he’s going after this, but he has time. He has time for everything now, really. He opens his belt and then the buttons on his pants. Heat flares in his own blue eyes. Steve shrugs out of his button-down.

His younger self snorts and lets go of the towel. “Yeah. Sure. Only ever had myself to play with, anyway, right?” He turns away from Steve and turns the shower back on.

The old pipes rattle in the walls. Steve peels off his undershirt, leaves it on the floor behind him, and pushes down his pants and shorts. His belt buckle clatters against the tile floor as he steps out of his pants. 

“We had Bucky,” he points out. 

He gets a hard look for his effort. Steve hadn’t forgotten how angry he was, not really, but it was still jarring to  _ see  _ it. 

“You gonna tell me about that?”

“He’s alive,” Steve says. “I’ll tell you how to find him. Later.” He closes the distance between them and steps into the tub. “I’ll tell you about Peggy, too,” he adds. 

He turns away.

Steve steps into the spray. It’s warm already, steam rising around them. The endless hot water from big communal heaters in the basement was about the only thing this place had going for it, and he’d taken advantage then. He had every intention of taking advantage now, too.

It’s surreal to push his fingers through his own hair from the wrong angle, but a lot in life has been surreal over the last fourteen or so years (chronologically), so it’s easy. It’s easy to scrape his fingertips from his forehead to his nape and watch the shiver work down his spine. He grabs the shampoo off the ledge.

“Already did that,” he says.

Steve flicks open the lid and tips the bottle over, anyway. “You missed a spot.”

“Sure I did.”

Steve grips his hair and yanks, just a little, just enough to make his point. “Listen to your elder.”

He snorts again and tips his head back. He closes his eyes. “Because I’m so good at that.”

“There aren’t a lot of people around older than us,” Steve concedes.

Steve washes his hair. There’s still some grit left; which he knows, he woke up the next morning with dust in his nose and panic in the back of his throat. He scrapes his fingers through his hair, along his scalp, tugging and pulling until he starts to relax. Until the tension in his shoulders starts to ease. Steve pushes his head down, under the water, and runs his hand through his hair to rinse out the shampoo as he reaches for the soap wrapped in the washcloth on the ledge. 

When he wears the shield, the weight of it settles in the center of his back. He keeps his hand in his hair, keeps his head pushed down, and Steve starts at his neck, where he knows the shield pulls until the muscles are tight. He soaps up slick skin and pulls at taut muscle until his shoulders slump, just a little; he slides his fingers from his hair and down the back of his neck, collecting soapy bubbles until he can start working his shoulders with both hands. 

He relaxes. His shoulders drop, his head stays down, his feet slide apart. Steve nudges up behind him and works down his arms from his shoulders to his wrists, and then his hands, sweeping his fingers over calluses, over new bruises.

“Keep drawing,” Steve says, running his hands back up his arms.

“We gonna be famous?”

“Only for our nudes.”

He scoffs. 

Steve works down his back. There are bruises, welts, that he knows will be gone soon. He doesn’t remember how much they hurt, but he’s careful of them, anyway. He runs his hands over his ass, thinks _this is America’s ass_, but doesn’t smile to himself. It’s not the time. 

Maybe later. 

Steve sinks to his knees. He soaps his hands and the cloth again, and runs them down his thighs, from the bottom curve of his ass to his knees, and then lower. Those first boots out of the ice had been hell on his calves. He pays careful attention to one, then the other, then wraps a hand around one ankle and tries to lift his foot. 

He resists. It’s the first time he’s balked. 

Steve tightens his grip on his ankle and lifts it, anyway. He’s got eleven years on the kid. Eleven years, and all the training, all the patience, all the skill that means. He doesn’t let him pull away. He digs his thumbs into his heel, into his arch, into the ball of his foot. He gets between his toes.

“Come on, man.”

“You wanna shut up?” Steve sets his foot down and picks up the other.

For maybe the first time in his life, he does. 

When he’s done, Steve runs his hands from his ankles, up his calves and thighs, until he can cover his ass with his hands. His thumbs graze up the center, and slowly, he spreads his cheeks. 

Breathless, shaky even over the sound of the water pounding down, he says, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Something we should have done a long time ago.” Steve rubs the tip of his finger down the lightly furred furrow of his ass, presses gently against the furled ring of his hole. “Bend forward.”

He hesitates, and Steve wonders if he’s going to have to push for it. But then he leans forward and arches his back. 

Steve rubs at his asshole, thumb and fingers swept over it, pressing, teasing, before he leans in. He starts with a kiss. A kiss, and holding him open, and then the gentle wet flick of his tongue. He ignores the needy low moan, but not the fingers threaded through his hair. He uses the pressure of them as a guide. A little at first, kitten licks, and then more. Broad, wet strokes. Pointed dry flicks of his tongue. He moans again, this time deep and long, and his back arches. Steve squeezes his ass.

_ Good kid. Take what you’re getting. _

The fingers in his hair tighten and the hips in his hands rock. Steve slips a hand from his hip to drag his fingers along his hipbone and down. He scratches through the wet tangle of curls at the base of his cock before wrapping a hand around him.

Steve strokes him as slow as he eats him. He knows he wants it faster, harder; the fingers in his hair, the impatient rock of his hips, the desperate low groan. He gives just a little more at a time, pushing him closer and closer to the edge, making him ride it. His cock in his hand is heavy, and Steve can feel the tension in him building, building. 

He rocks back, then forward, and Steve feels the jumping squirm of muscle in his hand. He strokes a little faster, laps a little harder, and he comes, tense all over--frozen--and then sagging. 

Steve pulls back, far enough to sit up straight. He moves his hands just to his hips. 

He turns around, looks down at Steve. His face his pink and his eyes are bright, but unfocused. He says, “So do I have to suck myself off or what?”

Steve doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing. “Just shut up.”

“I can do this all day.”

The smirk on his face is maybe the first time Steve has seen himself smile. 

He laughs and stands up. “Yeah, I know you can.” He runs his hands up and down his back, then nudges him forward a little so he faces away. Steve slides closer, brushing his erection against the curve of his ass, and he moves a hand from his hip to cup his half-hard cock. “We’ll do that later. Maybe I’ll bring Peggy.”

His breath catches and his dick twitches at Peggy’s name.

Steve eases to the side, just a little, slipping his hand away from his cock to rest on the inside of his thigh, and he slides the hand still on his hip around, over his ass. He pulls one cheek from the other. 

He sighs.

Steve brushes the pad of his thumb over his hole. 

“We don’t have forever, old man,” he says.

Steve scrapes his teeth over the curve of his neck, knowing it will make him shudder. “We have as much time as I say we have.” He presses the pad of his thumb against his hole and feels him relax. It’s not perfect, but it’s good enough. He pulls away just enough to hold himself, then presses the head of his cock against him.

He doesn’t say anything. He just reaches back, fingertips digging into Steve’s flank, and arches his back.

The fingers in his flank clench and drag, but Steve fucks into him slowly. Gently. He’s not going to speed up. He remembers what he needed then, what he wanted, and he’s going to give it. Steve holds his hip and moves the hand from his thigh back to his cock. He matches each slow stroke of his cock to the rock of his hips.

He drops his head back against Steve’s shoulder. His eyes are closed and his mouth open, just a little. There’s a high flush on his face.

_ Good kid, _ Steve thinks, but he doesn’t say it; instead, he finds the spot just under his ear and seals his mouth to it. He licks at hot salty skin like he licked his ass and he squeezes, just a little, on each upstroke.

It starts in his back, muscles tensing. He gives a short, sharp cry and he’s coming again, shoving back against Steve, trying to rock forward into his hand. Steve wraps himself around him, taking the hand from his hip to wrap his arm around his chest, pressing his cock in deep. He strokes him through it. His hands clench against his flanks. Steve lets himself speed up, just a little, just enough. A few thrusts later, he’s coming, too, pressing in deep and staying there. 

Steve holds him. One arm around his chest, one around his waist, and he waits until their breathing evens out a little. Until his heartbeat is a little less wild. 

When he pulls away, the full-body shudder from his younger self makes him smirk.

Steve pushes the shower curtain open. He half-turns to step out of the shower, on the way smacking the ass he just fucked. 

“Now you can put some pants on,” he says.

He laughs. “Thanks.”

Steve snags the towel from the radiator. He sees the kid roll his eyes--Steve just shrugs. There are benefits to being out first. He heads for the door, scooping his clothes up off the floor as he makes his way to the bedroom.

He follows. Steve dumps his clothes on the bed and dries off, scrubbing the towel through his hair and then down. He watches himself cross the room, watches himself dry off the exact same way. Steve tosses his towel on the bed. A moment later, he does the same thing. They look at each other. 

His mouth twists in a self-deprecating smile. “I guess I’m not less of a slob in the future.”

“We get one flaw, we’re keeping it.”

He snorts and shakes his head.

Steve gets dressed, watching himself pull on loose sweats and a t-shirt. He’s going to spend the night in front of the computer, Steve knows. 

He sits down heavily on the foot of the bed and stares across the room at the dresser.

Steve follows his eyes. “I had to bring it back,” he says. He grabs his boots and goes to sit down beside himself to put them on. “You can take it back to HQ tomorrow. Like it was never gone.”

“Anything else I need to do?”

“Yeah.” Steve finishes tying his boots and gets up. He moves in front of him, looks down at him as he buttons his sleeves. “Get some fucking sleep. Eat something. Call Peggy.”

He looks miserable and trying not to show it. He pushes his hand through his hair, shoving the sopping mess back off his forehead. “Is that all?”

Finished with his cuffs, Steve crosses to the dresser and taps the stack of files there. “Read these. Maybe take the weekend to go get Bucky.”

He looks like he’s seen a ghost. Steve remembers this, the raw fresh pain from these days, when Bucky was newly gone and he’d been unmoored.

“What?”

Steve looks at himself. He couldn’t see it then--he didn’t have the experience. But he sees it now. He sees a kid. Just a kid. A kid in pain, a kid all alone, but just a kid. He thinks about what to tell him. He’s been thinking about what to tell him since he knew he had to come back here, to return the scepter. He thinks about how he’d felt in DC, on that street, when Bucky’s mask had come off. 

“Get something to eat. Order in,” he says kindly. “Then read these.”

His gaze shifts to the files and then back to Steve. He looks so bleak.

Steve remembers that hopelessness. He closes the distance back to him and puts his fingers in his hair. He tips his head back. “It’s going to be all right,” he says.

He nods. He tries a half-smile. “I guess we don’t do too bad, huh?”

“Kid, we’re about to go get our girl.” Steve drops his hand and steps back.

He starts to say something.

Steve just shakes his head.  _ Son, just don’t. _ “You are not coming with me.”


End file.
